3This fic was beta-ed by the user SymphonyinA. Many thanks to her for all the help. Please check out her wonderful stories. This story uses a mishmash of Leroux, ALW, and Kay elements for the backstory. It is modern, but non-AU. Expect a lot of plot twists.
A House with Real Doors
Christine falls in love with the house the instant she sees it. For years, Erik had promised a house above the ground, with real doors and windows and no torture chambers, but they would always be distracted away from that subject for some reason or another. She had grown to love their little house by the lake, so much so that she could not believe they were moving away, and cried when it finally came time to depart. For the entirety of the voyage to their new home, she sunk into a confused and melancholy stupor. Everything felt unreal.
Even now, finally standing on the threshold of her new house, the scene feels too perfect to be true, if not for the sunlight stinging her eyes, and her husband's cold, bony fingers intertwined around her own. She gives his hand a quick squeeze, and then hugs him around his thin waist.
"Thank you, Erik. It's perfect!" she exclaims, leaning her head on his shoulder and smiling brightly, her excitement slightly exaggerated as she tries to keep travel fatigue from affecting her mood.
"It is adequate," Erik answers, squinting and raising a hand to shield his eyes. Even behind the shaded lenses that form part of his "normal human" guise, the afternoon sun is too bright for eyes quite adjusted to darkness.
The house stands at the end of a silent, leaf-covered road, accompanied only by a copse of trees behind it. It is built in a smooth, modern style, but its design has, fortunately, not completely forsaken aesthetic for utility. The garage is a separate shack set to the left side, leaving a nearly symmetrical facade. Under the gray cross-hipped roof with small, unobtrusive chimneys, the jutting central portion is furnished with yellow brick while the rest is composed of beige stone. A pair of iron porch lights hang on either side of the front door. Two rows of long, rectangular windows mark out the placement of the first and second floor rooms. Trailing ivy covers the right side, climbing up toward a single Gothic turret that breaks the balance of the design. Erik vows to remove that folly as soon as he acquires the house blueprints. It is an unsightly blemish, both in its placement and its style, an antiquated fixture attached to a thoroughly modern construction.
Christine slips away from him as her attention falls on the rose bushes about the porch. Though a few still struggle to bloom, most are half-wilted from neglect. She caresses the faded and crumbling petals of one pink blossom, then looks up at the dusty windows. It has been long since anyone showed the once proud garden any love.
Papa's stories told of beautiful little elves that lived in roses. They whispered happy predictions of love and marriage into the dreams of good girls, but also carried spears as sharp as any thorn, with which they avenged broken hearts. Once in Perros-Guirec, she put her ear to a rose to try and hear the elves, but heard nothing except the petals rustling. Her hair got tangled in the branches, and both she and Raoul received a number of scratches on their hands while freeing her. After that, she was upset until Raoul took a turn at listening for the elves, and while he too found only silence, he reassured her the elves must have been too stunned by her beauty to speak.
She smiles at the happy memory, but quickly dismisses it from her mind before she can grieve for the beloved friend who is now lost to her. She looks back toward the husband she has chosen, and finds him looking skittish as he stands alone and exposed in the sunlight and open air.
The entire time, Erik has been contemplating the sight of his wife. She fits perfectly with her surroundings, happy, beautiful, and vivacious, the proud mistress of her home; but as for him, even while wearing his disguise, he would never belong in this world of the bourgeoisie.
Christine puts aside her desire to explore the grounds further when she notices his discomfort. She returns to his side and takes his hand.
"Come, you must show me around the inside," she half pleads with, half encourages him, ducking behind him and gently, playfully shoving him forward.
Erik nods stiffly and pulls her after him. As they progress the short distance to the door, he recalls he has dreamed of this moment for much of his life, the day he could mingle among other men in his perfected mask, an adoring wife at his side, returning home not to a cellar but a comfortable flat that fit a man of his income. Trepidation is replaced by elation, until he is outright giddy at the idea of showing his wife her newest present. He even dares to imagine Christine's overjoyed reaction once they are inside. Perhaps she would even let him kiss her.
Hats and coats are quickly cast aside as Erik begins to expound upon the house's features.
"Look, dear, here is the parlor. The kitchen and dining space come connected, like they do in all the homes built in the last couple of years. An open floor plan makes the space feel larger, you see, not to mention saves building material."
Christine nods, her eyes sweeping over the downstairs space. She sees that while the home is sparsely decorated, it is still tastefully arranged. The dining room occupies the center of the wide area, with the kitchen to the left and the parlor to the right. The kitchen consists of a stove built into the left-side wall and a sink in the back wall, connected by a curving marble countertop. A tall white box, perhaps an icebox, stands next to the sink. A rectangular cabinet is built into the middle of the floor, topped with a marble pane that matches the counter, and two tall wooden stools are placed at one side
"An island." Erik helpfully explains. "A bit more space to work on, provided you remember not to collide with it."
In the parlor, a round coffee table surrounded by gray wingback chairs is placed in front of a fireplace built into the wall. Above the fireplace, there are three small alcoves, which could be used to place any number of decorative trinkets. Off to the right there are three long brown leather couches placed at right angles to each other, forming a rectangle with a very low glass-door cabinet, above which stands a strange black block. Even further to the right, a bookshelf occupies part of the wall.
However, Christine's attention is not drawn toward furniture or the strange apparatuses, but to the walls, as the back of the house extends into a glass box. The yard and the trees in the distance are readily visible. Light from the setting sun pours in directly, dyeing everything a warm gold. She gasps and claps her hands over her mouth, awed at the strange sight.
"It's like magic." She whispers, once she recovers her faculties.
"Who is to say that it is not?" Erik remarks, only half joking. The house's design indeed blends truth and illusion together like a well-designed magic trick. The steel structure and glass panes reflect a clean, cutting-edge modernity, but also offer a primal thrill by placing the residents among the surrounding landscape. He appreciates the aesthetics of such a structure, and had such building technologies been available when he first learned his craft, he would surely have attempted work in this style; but he is less sure about actually living here. Yet, now, the joy in Christine's eyes informs him that he has chosen the right house.
"Thank you, Erik."
Throwing her arms around his neck, she stands on her toes and lifts her head. Erik, cooperating, leans down.
"I'm proud of you," she whispers, her lips brushing against the leather of his mask.
Erik has been incredibly brave in taking this momentous step toward reintegrating with society. She wants him to know she appreciates his efforts.
She slips one hand down toward the edge of his mask. Immediately, his body tenses, and his eyes dart toward the glass walls and the yard beyond.
"Don't worry." She mouths.
He offers no resistance, but still closes his eyes. Even if he knows by now she will not recoil or be disappointed by the sight of his true face, a lifetime of conditioning is hard to break.
Leather, painted to resemble sallow skin, peels away to reveal hollow cheeks, scarred lips, and the gaping hole that should have been a nose. Christine caresses one sharp, jutting cheekbone, and places a quick kiss upon the same location; a longer kiss follows on his thin lips.
Pulling back, she finds Erik's eyes are now open, and reads the silent plea within them. She smiles and puts her forehead forward. He kisses her there, then slowly, carefully on her eyebrow When she does not flinch, he kisses her round rosy cheeks, and then her small snub nose, and finally her soft lips.
Their kiss is long and lingering. Once his initial doubts have passed, Erik's passion bursts forth and the world no longer exists for him beyond Christine. She kisses breath into his lungs and warmth into his veins. When she is obligated to break off their kiss, he embraces her and buries his face in her coiffure, basking in her scent. He only pulls away when she turns her head, the motion tickling his malformed nasal cavity.
"There are only some spare bedrooms over that way." He tells her when he finds her peering over his side at a shadowed corridor by the side of the staircase; the curious little kitten. "You shall find better things to see upstairs."
With one long arm wrapped around her waist, he ushers her up the hardwood half-turn staircase. While ascending, he notes the electric lights installed under every tread. He recalls when the Palais Garnier switched from gaslights to electric bulbs, and is again impressed that a technology he knows as a novelty has now become commonplace.
In the middle of the staircase, the wall by the landing has been converted into a bookshelf. Christine barely catches a glance of the titles stacked there before they proceed on. Some of them are brand new, others are worn; many of them are works that Erik already possesses, and she wonders why he chose to acquire these extra copies.
They climb up the stairs, then pass through the second floor foyer, as undecorated as the downstairs area. Christine is suddenly seized with longing for her underground home; as unconventional of a dwelling as it was, it was cozy and comfortable, unlike this empty, unwelcoming structure that only barely hints at human habitation. She looks up at Erik and rests her hand over his knuckles, reassuring herself that the two of them together had brought warmth into the dark corners of the opera-house cellars, and they would now do the same for their new home.
Erik stops and shows her through the final door on the right-side, revealing a luxurious bedroom that stood in bold contrast to the rest of the house. A large brass bed is set against the center of a side wall. On either side are two black lacquer nightstands, each topped with a brass lamp. A little distance from the entryway, there is a similar black lacquer bureau, decorated with mother-of-pearl inlays in the pattern of graceful Chinese ladies. Along the opposite wall are several windows with blinds drawn, and under the windows is a round end table with a mirror and a bowl of potpourri. Next to it, thrown in the corner, is a large pile of brightly colored cushions. The room is completed by a heavy patterned rug that lines the center of the floor.
"This will be your room." He states to her.
She chuckles and shakes her head, wishing, not for the first time, that her husband could be more confident. Though respectable homes contained separate quarters for the husband and wife, the two of them had spent every night for years in their Louis-Philippe Room-Erik's former room became the music room after he disposed of his coffin. She wants Erik by her side, and she knows he needs her company. "Surely you mean our room."
"Y-yes, I did." Erik quickly corrects himself, his face taking on a pinkish tint. He bows his head sheepishly and mutters, "That is, if you think it proper..."
"Do you mean what we were doing before was improper?"
"N-no!" He exclaims. The more he talks, the less articulate he becomes. "Of course not! There is nothing wrong with a married couple sharing a bed. But, you see, there was only one usable room left in that house. Are you sure you want to…"
"Erik, listen to me. I am your wife, and I want you with me. In this room."
She smooths a hand over his hair. He looks up and finds her standing straight with her arms crossed and a determined set to her eyes and mouth that discourages any further questioning. He can only nod, comforted by her decision.
The next instant, an excited glint enters his golden eyes. "Wait here, my dear. There's something more I need to show you."
He pats her shoulder, then darts off as fast as his lanky legs will carry him. Christine loses track of him as he turns a corner. Left by herself, she sets to exploring her room. First, she tests the bed and finds it decently firm. Then, she checks through the drawers of the nightstands and bureau and finds them all empty except for a folded patchwork quilt, which she spreads over the bed. She pulls back a corner of the curtain to look out at the front yard, then sits down on the cushions. She almost sinks into them and spends a good while extricating herself.
Having looked through her bedroom, she sits down on the bed and waits for Erik. The minutes pass, and her attention is increasingly drawn toward the two doors that face the foot of the bed. One of them, a sliding door, opens to show a closet containing some cardboard boxes; the other door is shut.
She should do Erik asked, as otherwise she might ruin the surprise he planned, but this is her house and she is curious. She steps off the bed peers through the door. It leads to a bathroom, which in turn has its own door leading to the hallway.
Her curiosity not sated, she steps into the hall and through the next door. The room is some sort of nursery. A large chest contains buckets of blocks and two toy cars. Standing against the wall is a shelf lined with dolls and stuffed animals. In the corner is a large, round plush bear that doubles as a seat. She cannot resist exclaiming in delight, but immediately experiences a sinking sense of guilt for not waiting. She returns to her room, using all her acting skills to compose herself.
She has always wanted children, new lives to bring into the world and shower with the same love that Papa and Mamma Valerius had given her. And, even though she might be blinded by love, she believes Erik would be good with children as well. Though he is no angel, he is a gentle guide and attentive guardian. He only needs to stop doubting himself.
Perhaps, then, he created the nursery to show he is finally ready for the duty of fatherhood. She grasps a pillow as a warm, fuzzy feeling stirs in her chest. Very soon, she hopes, she can have her own happy little surprise for Erik. Since their wedding, she has often dreamed about a child, dreams so beautiful and real that she would be reluctant to wake from them. Hugging the pillow to her, she closes her eyes imagines it as a boy-it is always a boy in her dreams-with golden hair and freckled cheeks, and with his father's eyes.
Her fantasies are interrupted by an energetic piano tune. She listens, entranced, as it plays out a joy that borders on horror, a wild ecstasy unconfined by reason. Recognizing it as Erik's work, she heeds the call of the melody and drifts after it until she reaches a set of double doors.
Abruptly, the music stops. Erik rushes out into the hallway and takes her hand.
"Yes, there you are. Now, behold."
He flings the door open. At first, Christine cannot believe her eyes. There, before her, is an almost perfect reproduction of their previous music room. She can recognize every one of the beloved instruments: a flute, Erik's new accordion, her father's violin, and even the imposing organ that occupies an entire wall. She presses down on the ivory keys of the grand piano, judging it to be real by the sound and the sensation. Everything is exactly as she remembers, except for the addition of a sliding glass door to the back patio. As the final minutes of dying red sunshine reflect off polished wood surfaces and brass rims, the usually somber chamber, draped in black crepe, glows with a warm and inviting radiance.
"How did you do it?" She asks breathlessly.
"Curious child, be careful about your questions, for a magician's secrets might be too dangerous for you to know." Erik's words tickle her ear as he nestles his chin in the crook of her neck and clasps her in his arms. "Do you like it?"
"I love it." Christine turns and quickly kisses him on the cheek. "I love you, Erik. Thank you, for all of this."
He beams at her, blissfully enjoying the sight of her happiness. She looks toward the piano, and then back him.
"Can you play me something？" She begs, stroking his wizened but graceful hands with her own.
Though reluctant to relinquish his hold on her, he nods and pulls away, seating himself in the piano bench. Under his nimble fingers, Conradin Kreutzer's Seliger Tod fills the air. As he plays, he sings of an all-consuming love that gives life even as it kills. She joins him, their voices intertwining, soaring into the heavens above.
As the sunset fades into twilight, their song stops. Christine sits down on the edge of the bench, and Erik slides away to allow her more room. She leans her head against Erik's shoulder, and he winds his fingers in a lock of her hair that has slipped free of her coiffure. They sit still, watching the sky change color.
"I must switch on the lights, Christine." Erik mumbles, making a half-hearted attempt to stand.
Christine tugs on his sleeve, keeping him beside her. "No. Not yet."
A hint of melancholy crosses her eyes as she watches the sky change color from soft pastels to a deep indigo. She realizes that she misses sunsets and sunrises, and knowing the passage of time; down in Erik's labyrinth there was no day or night, except for the blinking off and on of artificial lights.
"Are you happy?" Erik asks, worried at her shift in mood.
"I've never been happier."
"Then Erik is a good husband?"
"Yes, you are." She replies, hoping he does not feel the need to ask again.
"And you are a perfect wife." He kisses her forehead. "My perfect, living wife. How can Erik ever deserve you…"
He trails off, finally overwhelmed by the fulfillment of his long-held dreams. He burns with the rapturous joy and love of a sinner in the face of God's grace, but also simmers with a tired sense of finality; fear and despair lurk in the back of his mind as he knows that he dares not strive for anything further
"Erik, stop. This is exactly what you deserve." Christine firmly declares as she reaches up and wipes away the tears forming at the corners of his recessed eyes. "You deserve to live in a normal house, and to walk among your neighbors in daylight. You deserve to be happy and you deserve to be loved."
She kisses away Erik's tears before they can fall. The salt taste lingers on her tongue. She takes a deep breath and tries to hold back her own tears.
The more she comforts him, the more Erik is awed by her kindness. With a sob, he falls at her feet and reaches for her skirts, but she quickly snatches them away. Then, she reaches down to pull him to his feet.
Whether because of their intense emotional states, or the encroaching darkness, the two of them forget their location.
Erik's head slams into the bottom of the piano with a resounding thump. Before he can make a sound, Christine yelps and falls to her knees, fretting over his injury.
"Oh, Erik, I'm so sorry! I didn't mean to do that. Are you hurt?"
He winces, rubbing at the rapidly swelling bump on his scalp. His wife's cool, soft hands fly to the same spot, and they are more soothing than any balm.
"No, not much. The only damage is to my dignity," he smiles wryly, "what little remains of it. You have already stolen the rest of it away, along with all my wits."
She laughs in relief, then leans over and kisses the bump. "You're still very dignified, Erik. And very witty. And I love you for it."
Slowly, carefully, she crawls out from under the piano; Erik follows suit. She takes his hand and helps him stand, satisfied that he shows no signs of nausea.
He holds onto her hands and presses his lips to her fingers. "Thank you, for everything."
The accident proves a blessing in disguise, since he is no longer crying.
By now, the room has gone completely dark. They switch on the light, and the powerful brightness dazzles Christine. Erik holds her shoulders, steadying her.
"These electric lights are too harsh for you." He casts a disapproving glance upwards. A room of this size would be well-lit by one lightbulb, yet the ceiling fixture includes three. "I will replace them with gaslights."
She shakes her head. "I can adjust. Don't worry."
After a few minutes, the light no longer hurts her eyes. She and Erik return to their music. One song follows another, until hours slip away.
Finally, Erik pauses and rubs at his eyes. Recalling his head injury, Christine hovers over him, concerned.
"What's the matter."
"Nothing." He blinks several times to focus his eyes. "The lights are just too bright."
He stifles a yawn, but Christine still notices the motion. She smiles, unable to hide her amusement, since she rarely find her husband tiring before her.
"The hour is rather late. You should be in bed now, child." Not only does she imitate Erik's tone, but also hooks one hand around his shoulders and the other under his knee in an attempt to lift him.
He clutches her arm in a panic. "Stop! You'll hurt yourself."
She gives a disappointed huff, but obeys his order. "You can't possibly weigh more than me."
For all his imposing height, Erik is essentially a skeleton. His clothing, however tailored, always hangs loosely on his limbs. Touching him, she cannot tell where muscle ends and where bone begins. All the times he leaned on her, it was his height rather than his weight that gave her problems.
He crosses his arms and scoffs. "I am not so tired that I cannot walk. Go to bed. I will be with you shortly."
"You're the one that needs rest." She taps her foot impatiently. "Will you go by yourself, or do I have to carry you?"
He hesitates in giving an answer.
"If I have to wait...or if I exhaust myself taking you to bed…" A devious smile stretches on her face. "I might fall asleep right away…"
"Are you threatening me, Christine?"
He stares at her, but only receives silence in return.
With a shake of his head and a defeated sigh, he rises from the bench. His legs wobble, and he grabs the edge for support. Christine reaches over to help him. Scowling, he seizes her wrist and drags her into the bedroom alongside him.
To her pleasant surprise, Christine finds she has over-estimated her husband's fatigue. He seems more eager than her to break in their new bed. They end the day with a final bit of excitement, pushing their bodies to the limit testing out all the features of the unfamiliar surroundings.
Christine wakes before night has passed. Opening her tired eyes, she can see a sliver of light peeking under the door. Either Erik has woken earlier than she has, or he has not slept at all. She lies still for a minute, and then decides to rise and join him.
Yet, when she searches for a shawl, she sees, under the faint light, the bony form of her husband stretched out upon the bed. Erik could spend several days and nights without slumber, followed by sleeping the sleep of the dead. He must have forgotten to extinguish the lights before succumbing to his fatigue. She sits back down and leans over him, observing his gaunt, uneven face, drained of all energy. Only in sleep does he reveal his sheer exhaustion and vulnerability. She brushes a lock of hair away from his eyes and traces her fingers along his hairline, stopping next to his ear. She hopes that he will sleep peacefully, for there were too many times, both before and after their marriage, that he has filled the night with his sobs and wails.
Just as she is ready to lie down next to him, something makes her pause: outside, in the hallway, there seem to be shuffling steps so soft that she is not sure she has heard them. She tries to dismiss the sound as a trick of darkness, but then, from the bathroom, there comes the unmistakable spray of the bath nozzle.
She could almost believe Erik is refreshing himself, but he is currently sleeping by her. Even knowing of his lifelike mannequins, she is sure that he is the real Erik due to the clammy skin under her fingers. For several minutes that seem like an eternity, the water rushes out of the spout, while the blood rushes through her veins, pumped by a quivering heart. She cannot even turn to look toward the bathroom door, in dread of what she might find there.
The bath drain gurgles. Then, everything falls silent.
Slowly, she looks back. Nothing has changed. The bathroom door is still shut; the house is still dark; she and Erik are the only people in the room and perhaps the entire house. She lets out the breath she is holding, almost disappointed. Again, she wonders if she is imagining things; old pipes could emit a variety of eerie noises.
No, she knows the difference between water running through pipes and water spraying out onto a surface, and she heard the latter.
The bathroom door seems to be the lid of Pandora's Box, daring her to open it and peer within. After brief consideration, she realizes confronting the lurking danger is preferable to waiting here, dreading what may come.
She turns to Erik, wondering if she should wake him so he could protect her. She decides she cannot disturb his hard-gotten sleep for such a little thing. She quickly presses her lips to his, then rises from bed, wraps herself in a shawl, and heads into the bathroom.
The unlit bathroom looks exactly like she left it. Nothing is out of place; there are no other people present.
Warm steam blows from the bathtub. She collects her courage, then approaches the bath. The steam grows more stifling with every step. Her shaking fingers wrap around the wet curtain. She hesitates, then draws it back in one sudden motion. Panicked eyes dart over the length of the tub; it is empty.
Her hand comes to rest on the adjacent wall, also slick with water. She sweeps her curls to one side and bends down. She feels within the tub itself. Puddles of water coat the bottom.
"Christine?"
Just as she ponders these unsettling details, a hand clasps her shoulder. She gasps and goes rigid in shock, before recognizing her husband's voice.
"Christine, what's wrong?"
"Oh, Erik. I'm sorry if I woke you." She slowly stands up. Her heartbeat is still frantic. She cannot raise her head to meet his eyes due to her fear and shame. "I thought...I heard something."
He takes a look through the area, his eyes seeing more clearly than hers. "What did you find?"
"Nothing," she replies, feeling rather foolish, like a child searching for monsters under the bed. "Erik, did you bathe before sleeping?"
"I must have." He raises his arm and sniffs at it, worried that his scent might bother her.
"Oh." She is not sure of his honesty, but she desperately wants to believe him. Maybe the water is left over from his bath, and the pipes in this house are unusually noisy.
He threads his fingers through her hair, the motion comforting her. "Come back to bed, child."
She nods, pressing herself to him and allowing him to guide her. It is easier to obey him, to feel safe as he watches over her and chases her fears away.
She sleeps undisturbed for the rest of the night.